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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29134689">Getting Out</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/apicturewithasmile/pseuds/apicturewithasmile'>apicturewithasmile</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Lost</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bocke, Canon Rewrite, Hand Jobs, I mean in the sense that they could've get this over with sooner, Kinda, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Slow Burn, if they weren't such big idiots</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:06:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,871</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29134689</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/apicturewithasmile/pseuds/apicturewithasmile</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ben had read John’s file multiple times over, practically knew it by heart, thought he knew exactly what to expect and yet couldn’t have been more wrong. Because what neither the file nor Richard’s words of advice could have predicted was how attracted he would be to him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Benjamin Linus/John Locke</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Gait</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a canon-rewrite that starts during the good old Henry Gale from Minnesota days and ends around "The Brig"/"The Man Behind The Curtain". Funny enough it started as a rewrite of an old fic of mine and then ended up being nothing like it.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>4 8 15 16 23 42    EXECUTE</p><p>The mechanic rattling of the countdown timer was comforting. It was man-made structure in the midst of nature’s chaos. And just like the birdsong out in the jungle it served as a reminder of something greater than him.</p><p>The countdown began anew and John Locke had made a habit of waiting for the first minute to go by before he would get up from his seat to entertain himself for the next 107 more minutes to come. As he stared up at the timer he wondered how long it had taken Desmond Hume to adapt to this new tact of time. Did the concept of an hour still hold any meaning to the Scotsman or had his brain been fully rewired to only compute time in units of 108 minutes?</p><p>It wouldn’t be for another two hours until Jack’s shift started so he was alone until then. Though not really alone, he had to remind himself – there was still the prisoner, a stranger to him like anyone else on this island but something about that man was so familiar. There was something about Henry Gale that made John more aware of himself in a way that was both unnerving and intriguing. It felt like talking to an old high school friend and seeing the reflection of your former self through their eyes. Except John had had no friends in high school and he never wanted to think back to the man he was before he came to this island.</p><hr/><p>Pretending to be someone else wasn’t difficult. In a way he was used to it. He pretended to be a father when in truth he wasn’t. He pretended to care about things that he really didn’t care about at all, and vice versa. Sometimes he even pretended to be a leader (and sometimes he truly was one – he wondered if his people could tell the difference). Whenever he had to leave the island he always used fake IDs and every one of those would come with a slightly different personality. He found that it made it easier to stay focussed on his mission until he was able to return. Benjamin Linus would get homesick, Dean Moriarty wouldn’t. And now he just had to pretend to be a wayward balloonist from Minnesota. What could possibly go wrong?</p><p>For starters there was the little mishap with Danielle Rousseau’s arrow – a small price to pay for an even more convincing performance, he thought, but nonetheless he would have preferred it not to be shot. He also could’ve done without the beatings but he’d been through worse. The real torture in his current situation was being locked in a room barely lager than his closet at home, surrounded by nothing but cold concrete and metal; not a living thing to touch except for himself. But soon enough they would find Henry Gale’s balloon and confirm his story and once that was settled they would reimburse him for the false imprisonment and the assault with the only currency that had any value to them: their trust.</p><p>But then of course there was the other issue that made things a little more complex than Ben had anticipated: John Locke – the man with the miraculous recovery whose name had already reached a near celebrity status amongst Ben’s people.</p><p>He had read John’s file multiple times over, practically knew it by heart, thought he knew exactly what to expect and yet couldn’t have been more wrong. Because what neither the file nor Richard’s words of advice could have predicted was how attracted he would be to him. And that was a rare kind of sensation which Ben was never particularly good at processing.</p><hr/><p>Leaning against the kitchen counter and with a spoonful of cereal in his mouth John dared a glance at the door that separated him and Henry Gale. He could almost feel those big eyes pierce their way through to him. Then, as if on cue and without the slightest hint of uncertainty, Henry’s voice sounded through the door: “Hello John!”</p><p>John swallowed. “How do you know it’s me?”</p><p>“Could you please bring me some food?” Henry asked, ignoring the question.</p><p>John grabbed his bowl of cereal off the kitchen counter and unlocked the door to the armoury-turned-prison in which the balloonist-turned-prisoner sat waiting. He was looking strangely comfortable sitting on the rusty old camp bed, a tattered paperback in his lap. The remnants of his orange shirt hung loosely from his chest revealing the wounded shoulder; his hands were still tied together from the most recent encounter with Sayid.</p><p>“Cereal okay?” John asked.</p><p>Henry nodded, put the book aside and held out his hands to reach for the bowl.</p><p>“Not so fast!” John said. “First you tell me how you knew it was me out there.”</p><p>Henry smiled, or at least the one half of his mouth that wasn’t swollen did, and John began to wonder what that face must look like if it wasn’t so bruised and beaten. He did get a good look when they brought Henry in here only a few days ago but even that seemed like a very distant memory given how disfigured he was now.</p><p>“I took a wild guess and got lucky,” Henry said and shrugged. “Believe me! I’m as surprised as you are, given my track record of misfortune recently.”</p><p>“Well, it must be your lucky day then, because this time there’s milk in it,” John said as he handed him the bowl, despite not being exactly satisfied with Henry’s answer.</p><p>“So you guys do have milk after all, huh?” Henry commented as he carefully balanced the bowl on the bed, then he slid down to the floor to kneel beside it and tried to solve the seemingly impossible task of using a spoon with his hands tied together. “What have I done to deserve such a luxurious meal?”</p><p>“Don’t flatter yourself,” John said. “That meal was meant for me.”</p><p>“And here I was hoping you were trying to impress me with your cooking skills,” Henry said with a look on his face that John quickly decided to read as smugness.</p><p>And yet with some primal instinct John responded by wiping imaginary beads of sweat from his forehead – once again being reminded of the complete lack of hair up there – in a sudden urge to make himself look more presentable. “Well, if you think it’ll taste better that way then be my guest and pretend that it was made with love.”</p><p>A giggle, almost big enough to qualify as a laugh, came from the man cowering on the floor. “Would be a lot easier if I could hold the spoon properly,” he said, raising his hands up towards John as if the rope around his wrists was a big unexpected reveal.</p><p>John knew right away that it was a mistake but couldn’t keep himself from making it. He kneeled down, took Henry’s hands in his own and started fumbling with the knot. “Don’t try anything funny,” John said.</p><p>“I’d never!” Henry said, shaking his head.</p><p>Was smug really the right way to interpret his attitude or was there something else? John wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.</p><p>Sayid had done a good job at ensuring Henry wouldn’t be able to free himself. The fibres of the rope began digging into John’s fingers as he tried to get a decent grip and loosen the knot but it was just too tight to even get started.</p><p>“That’s not gonna work,” John said, more to himself than to Henry, then he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a switchblade. As he began to cut through the rope he was suddenly very aware of Henry’s breath brushing against his cheek.</p><p>“Your gait,” Henry said, leaning forward a little and stopping just a few inches shy of whispering it directly in John’s ear.</p><p>John kept his eyes fixed on Henry’s wrists as he carefully unwound the rope, revealing deep red marks where it had dug into Henry’s skin. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”</p><p>“The sound of your footsteps – that’s how I knew it was you,” Henry said. “You’re special, John. You’re the only one of your people who seems to have an idea of where he’s going.”</p><p>John rushed to his feet; his heart was drumming in his chest, roaring in his ears. Without another word he staggered backwards out of the room, slammed the door shut and drowned out Henry’s voice which was calling out his name.</p><hr/><p>His mouth hurt, especially when he was speaking, yet he screamed John’s name through the door. It also hurt when he was chewing, but alas he was hungry, so he ate. But worst of all there was a new appetite on his lips that pained him, one he couldn’t allow himself to give in to. Benjamin Linus may want it but Henry Gale wasn’t supposed to.</p><hr/><p>John hadn’t been intimate with anyone, not even with himself, in years. It wasn’t that he couldn’t have been, technically. The doctors were very quick to promise to him not to worry, that sexual functionality should be of no concern and that he would be able to have a very fulfilling love life. Out of spite he had wanted them to be wrong just like he wanted them to be wrong about everything. So when he woke up with an erection a couple of weeks after being released from hospital he decided not to do anything about it and to just sit it out.</p><p>Then he crashed on the island and it reminded him of pleasures he had long forgotten and showed him others he hadn’t even dreamed of before. Still, sexual needs weren’t on the top of his list. There were some undoubtedly attractive women amongst the other survivors but he wasn’t interested in any of them in that way. And yet the island had brought him this stranger, a man at that, who caused him to seriously consider the necessity of a cold shower as if he was a teenager again.</p><hr/><p>Ben could hear the faint beeping of the alarm through the door. Another 108 minutes gone by, he thought and added them to his mental count. Under different circumstances he’d have found it annoying but in his current situation without any source of natural light it proved to be a rather effective tool for keeping track of time. Assuming he hadn’t slept through any alarms he calculated that it must be his fourth day in captivity now.</p><p>Shortly after the alarm had stopped, another familiar sound seemed to come closer. For a moment he was blinded by the beam of bright light that fell onto his face as the door was opened. Then he saw John who seemed to be wearing a fresh shirt.</p><p>Ben stood up from his bed. “What brings you back here?”</p><p>The answer didn’t come with words but was nonetheless direct. In a swift motion John had pushed him backwards and pinned him against the wall with the entire weight of his body. Ben’s first instinct was to calculate his chances of winning if he tried fighting back – the wounded shoulder put him at a clear disadvantage and his prime Jiu Jitsu days were long gone, plus he was pretty sure Sayid must’ve cracked a rip or two. Maybe if he could reach into John’s pocket and find the switchblade there. Or if he could get to the cereal bowl that was resting on the shelf—</p><p>Then his mouth hurt and Ben realised that John wasn’t attacking him. He was kissing him. Though that wasn’t quite true either. John was kissing Henry Gale. And that wasn’t part of Benjamin Linus’s plan. He had to make the split second decision that the wealthy balloon enthusiast from Minnesota had outlived his usefulness and that he would have to – painful though it may be – use his right arm to grab the empty cereal dish and hit John over the head with it, just hard enough to render him unconscious for a while.</p><hr/><p>“John! John, can you hear me?”</p><p>He opened his eyes and saw a metallic reflection slowly forming a familiar shape. He blinked. A spoon was lying in a puddle of white liquid surrounded by pieces of broken china.</p><p>“John?”</p><p>Then he noticed he was lying on the floor. He tried to move but that made the headache worse.</p><p>“Take it easy.”</p><p>Finally John recognised the voice. “Jack? What happened? Where’s Henry?”</p><p>“I was just about to ask you the same thing.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Wanderlust</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ben didn’t think he would see John Locke again so soon, let alone that it was going to be in his bedroom in the middle of the night. The gun in John’s hand, however, seemed less surprising considering the abrupt ending of their last encounter. He’d been trying his best not to think about that moment again but whenever he found himself alone at night his mind would inevitably wander back there. How warm the weight of John’s body felt in contrast to the cold concrete behind his back and how John’s beard scratched against his lip causing it to tear open again; how he froze at the first taste of John’s tongue in his mouth until he let himself melt into it and just for the briefest of moments kissed him back.</p><p> “Sorry that I didn’t say goodbye before I left,” Ben said as he sat up in his bed.</p><p> “I’m more disappointed that you didn’t introduce yourself properly,” John said.</p><p>Ben nodded, his lips feigning remorse as a peace offering. “Help me into my wheelchair and I’ll make up for it.”</p><p>John seemed to consider this proposal for a moment, but eventually lowered the gun and approached Ben’s bed. “Don’t try anything funny.”</p><p>“Says the man who snuck into my bedroom at night,” Ben said with a grin in his eyes.</p><p>“Put your arm around my neck. I'll lift under your knees,” John said and Ben did as instructed.</p><p>After John had lowered him into the wheelchair – a little less gentle than Ben would have appreciated – Ben held out his hand to him. “My name is Benjamin Linus,” he said. “And I’ve lived on this island all my life.”</p><hr/><p>John was glad that they had left the barracks as quickly as they did and were now camping in the jungle. Sleeping under a solid roof in a real bed just felt wrong. The hatch was different, it had a purpose – one that John wished he had kept believing in. But living in quaint little houses, protecting their suburban bliss behind a sonic fence? That was cheating.</p><p>He stood by the open entrance to Ben’s tent for a couple of minutes quietly observing him. Ben was sitting at a desk with his back turned to John, flicking through a file of quite substantial thickness. It was lying on top of an assortment of open books, spiral notebooks and other paperwork. John noticed a cane leaning against the desk, but the wheelchair was still not far out of reach either.</p><p>“I know you’re there, John.” Ben eventually said without turning around.</p><p>John cleared his throat. “Do you now?”</p><p>Ben pointed towards a small mirror standing on a pile of books in the right hand corner of his desk, all while keeping his eyes glued to the file in front of him.</p><p>“Why don’t you just make up another story about my distinctive gait?” John said, entering the tent in a manner as if he was browsing through a gift shop looking for nothing in particular. In truth he hoped to get a glimpse of what Ben was looking at.</p><p>Ben glanced over his shoulder with the faintest of smiles on his lips. “I wasn’t making that up,” he said as he closed the file and buried it underneath what looked like a map of the island. Then he took his cane and stood up. “You <em>are</em> special, John. I meant what I said. Just look,” he said as he took a few steps forward to bridge half the distance between himself and John. “A week ago I couldn't move my toes. But the minute you showed up I started to feel pins and needles.”</p><p>John tried not to smile and failed, secretly cursing himself for falling so easily again. He had hoped that his previous attraction to Henry Gale would prove just as fictitious as the man himself but that hope got crushed to pieces the very moment he shook Benjamin Linus’s hand and felt the same magnetic pull he had been unable to resist before. However, he was determined not to get in over his head this time. “Pins and needles, huh?” he said in a mocking tone.</p><p>Ben nodded. “In my legs.” The tip of his tongue made a swift appearance to brush a rosy glare onto his lips. “And this is only the beginning, John. I can’t wait to show you what this island can do.”</p><p>And in over his head John was.</p><hr/><p>It must have been around two in the morning when Ben woke up from his dream, the first dream in a very long time. It took him a moment to fully realise the delicate nature of its content. Images that his subconscious had drawn in his sleep started rushing back to him, images of naked bodies entangled in one another and impossible to tell apart, skin sinking into jungle floor, lips and anthuriums and hands and knives and John, always John.</p><p>Instinctively he looked around his tent to make sure he was alone and nobody could see him in this state – they may not be able to read his mind but his body left no room for plausible deniability.</p><p>A particularly embarrassing teenage memory started bubbling up in his mind of that one time his father walked into his room without knocking while Ben was attempting to pleasure himself; an experience so traumatic that to this day he would rather find a quiet place in the jungle when his body demanded that certain type of attention, instead of doing it in the fickle privacy of his bedroom. This meant that right now there was nothing he could do. There were about two dozen people sleeping in close proximity, it was the middle of the night and he still needed his cane for longer distances – there was really no way for him to get far enough from camp now, no matter how desperate he was for that itch to be scratched.  It would have to wait and if he was lucky it might just pass on its own.</p><hr/><p>John was just eating his breakfast mango when he saw Ben walk off into the jungle without so much as a word to anyone. He waited a moment, made sure nobody was watching and then snuck inside the tent unnoticed.</p><p>It was just large enough for him to stand upright in the centre of it. He found the camp bed neatly made and wondered if that little luxury of sleeping in a private tent was a privilege of leadership or if any member of this community would’ve gotten the same treatment when recovering from spinal surgery.</p><p>The desk on the other side was equally as neat and tidy as the bed. All the books, maps and notes that had been spread out across the desktop the day before were filed away, except for that one folder which was lying out in the open as if put there on purpose. Upon closer inspection John realised that must have been exactly what Ben had done, if not for the obvious placement then for the writing in bright red marker on the cover page that read: <em>#4 – John Locke</em>.</p><p>He felt anxious when he sat down at the desk. Logically he knew there wasn’t going to be anything in it that he wouldn’t already know about himself. But a lot of those things he had been trying hard to forget.</p><p>A couple of deep breaths later he built up the courage to open the file and the first thing he saw was a picture of himself which he recognised to be from his driver’s license – back when he still drove cars and had hair. Then he noticed the piece of paper that the photograph was attached to: it was a copy of his birth certificate. Next up was his entire medical history; every vaccine he ever got, every check-up he ever had, every kidney that ever got stolen – it was all there. Then there were various papers from childcare services and adoption agencies that had tried for years to find him a family and always remained unsuccessful. Then school reports, job applications, the lease agreement to his apartment, a booking confirmation for the walkabout in the Australian outback. John skimmed through all of these papers unsure what, if anything, he was looking for. And then he found it: a credit card receipt from a jeweller, $420 for an engagement ring. That was all he could afford at the time.</p><p>Not that a more expensive ring would’ve made a difference. His relationship with Helen didn’t fail because of a cheap ring. It failed because he couldn’t let go of a past that had taught him he was never going to be good enough.</p><p>John closed the file and thought about Ben’s insistence on how special he was and wondered how much truth there could really be in that assessment when every piece of paper in this folder was proof of the opposite.</p><hr/><p>The cane kept digging into wet jungle soil, slowing him down and turning what was meant to be a short brisk walk into an exhausting hike. On top of that he was tired. After being woken from his dream Ben had eventually managed to fall asleep again, but only for a couple of hours until the sun came up to blind him with the memory of John Locke’s mouth on his own. Then he wasn’t able to lie still anymore, he had to get it out of his system or else it was going to become a nuisance.</p><p>So here he was now, about a mile away from camp looking for a comfortable spot to sit and take care of business. That was all it’s ever been for him and all it was supposed to be – a transaction between his mind and his body, always alone, never involving a third party and never investing more than he could profit from it.</p><p>On the edge of a creek he found a large Banyan tree; its vine-like roots were forming a curtain of privacy behind which he could settle down and take in the scenery, the sounds and scents of the island for a moment. Then he closed his eyed and thought of John; immediately the images from his dream were coming back to him, complemented by new ones.</p><p>His body had just begun to react when he could hear a noise that wasn’t there before. His eyes shot open to see John Locke, kneeling by the creek and splashing water in his face before throwing a swift glance over his shoulder right to where Ben was sitting. The look on his face was clearly saying “I know you’re there, Ben!”</p><p>“John!” Ben shot up to his feet, instantly regretting the rapid movement as he felt the surgical scar bite into his lower back. He swallowed the pain, tried to stay focussed and not to show any sign of weakness. “How did you find me?”</p><p>John wiped his hands dry against the sides of his cargo pants. "I followed your trail." He pointed at the cane that was leaning against the Banyan tree. “You made it quite easy for me.”</p><p>“I—” Confusion blinked in Ben’s eyes, he shook his head. “I didn’t mean for you to follow me.”</p><p>“Right!” John took a step closer only for Ben to move a step backwards. “Just like you <em>didn’t</em> want me to find the file you left on your desk?”</p><p>Ben opened his mouth to speak but the words got stuck in his throat. He felt like he got caught plotting a scheme so secret he didn’t even know it himself. Did he really leave the file so John would find it? Maybe. He wasn’t sure of his own intentions anymore and that was frightening.</p><p>“What is it you wanted me to see in there, Benjamin?” John asked, inching closer with each word.</p><p>With his back against the Banyan tree and John only inches away from him, Ben had nowhere to run to. “Nothing. I just…” He looked down to the ground, avoiding John’s gaze. It suddenly seemed too dangerous to be looked at and there was a comfort in seeing the Banyan roots vanish into the earth underneath his feet. “I was looking at it again this morning and I must’ve left it there after I realised—”</p><p>“Realised what?”</p><p>“Ever since you got here and I learned about your recovery I’ve been trying to figure it out. Who is this man? What makes <em>him</em> so special? Why does he deserve to heal while I am made to suffer? And even with all that knowledge at my disposal I couldn’t find the answer. But now I realise that it doesn’t matter who you were. It only matters who you are now and I don’t need to know <em>why</em> the island thinks you’re special. I just need to know that I agree with it.” Ben’s voice started trembling. He pressed his lips together, willing himself back in control but knowing full well how futile that attempt was.</p><p>That’s when John put a hand on his chin and gently forced him to look up. And Ben understood this wasn’t a fight and he didn’t need to win it. He just needed to let go.</p><p>With his thumb John traced along the scars on Ben’s lips like he was following trails on a map. They were almost invisible but John knew where to look for them. Then he let his hand wander down Ben’s neck, coming to a rest on the little patch of hair poking out of his shirt. A moment of hesitation was quickly brushed away when Ben, ever so slightly, pushed himself closer against John’s body, showing him that the lust for exploration was mutual.</p><p>John wrapped his arms around Ben, one hand just above the scar on his back – careful not to hurt him there; the other hand buried deep in Ben’s hair as he pulled him tight into a kiss; a kiss from which Ben didn’t flee this time; a kiss that started on their lips and then ventured into new and unmapped territories when John sunk to his knees and took him in his mouth.</p><p>Ben’s fingers clawed into the tree behind him, roots to tether him to this world as John pushed him further and further to its edge. And then he came – wordless and blind, a silent earthquake uprooting him from his island.</p><p>John wiped his mouth clean as he stood up. “You look a little disoriented,” he said and grinned.</p><p>“I am,” Ben replied almost inaudibly and the more clear-headed he became the more aware of his own lack of experience he got. “I really don’t know where to go from here, John.”</p><p>“It’s okay, let me show you,” John said. He leaned in to give Ben a kiss and with it a small taste of his semen. Then John unbuckled his belt, took Ben’s hand and guided it inside his pants to where Ben would find him hard and desperate to be touched. And when his knees were getting weak under Ben’s touch, he searched for balance in a kiss until finally he reached his destination.</p><hr/><p>They sat together on the ground, side by side, Ben’s head resting on John’s shoulder. For a while the only noise they could hear was the splashing from the creek in front of them and wind rustling through the trees. Then John turned to Ben and cleared his throat.</p><p>“What?” Ben asked when John didn’t say anything though obviously he wanted to.</p><p>“Well, I was just thinking… it is a bit unfair how little I know about you while you know so much about me.”</p><p>“What do you want to know?”</p><p>“I don’t know.” John shrugged. “When’s your birthday?”</p><p>“December 19<sup>th</sup>.”</p><p>John furrowed his brow and straightened his posture as if that would make the calculations in his mental calendar go any faster. “That’s today!”</p><p>“Right. 40 years ago to the day.” Then he paused for a moment before following up with the next piece of information. “I was born about 30 miles outside of Portland.”</p><p>Of course Ben knew that he had just exposed one of his biggest – and possibly most pathetic – lies, but he didn’t see the point anymore in pretending he was born on the island. He just hoped John would understand why he had to lie about it.</p><p>John did understand and smiled as he placed a soft kiss on Ben’s forehead. “Happy birthday then, Benjamin.”</p><p>“Thanks, John. This might actually be the best one so far.”</p>
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